


Stuck.

by kyungsco



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Comedy, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyungsco/pseuds/kyungsco
Summary: Tale #19Yixing wakes up handcuffed to a woman who he thinks is a guy in a red dress.





	1. This is why people leave the morning after.

**Author's Note:**

> What.The. Heck. Did I just finish this fic or what??  
> A huge thanks to the 1001 Tales mods for first, running an amazing fanfiction fest, and second, being so supportive and kind and everything. I've gone through (and still am going through) a lot of things right now, and I've almost given up writing altogether, but thanks to them, I was greatly motivated to finish my fic. They weren't pushy or anything. They were just understanding and sweet, and that was all I needed to find the inspiration to write again.  
> A big shout-out to my beta, the lovely Tina, who has been nothing but patient with me. Thanks a lot, man!
> 
> Just a light-hearted fic for a light-hearted fest. I hope you enjoy !

**A** t first, there were strawberries.

And then, in the horizon, past the white, pillow-like, strawberry-strewn bushes that are actually clouds, he sees something move.  It’s a little too far away to recognize, even with light as bright as this, but he knows that it’s a creature of some sort, and it is galloping, _flying_ , even.  It gets closer, closer, closer, and _closer_ , until he can make out the unmistakable form of a majestic equine with a single tusk on its forehead, one that closely resembles that of a narwhal’s.

_Unicorn_.

And it gallops— _no_ , flies, closer, his eyes sparkle with a mixture of wonder and confusion.  Only then does he realize the speed it’s approaching with, what with the mixture of dust and cloud and glitter it leaves in its wake; his eyes widen, and he instinctively shields his face with his arms (as if it’ll do anything to protect him from a horse running, or _flying_ , towards him at infinity miles an hour).

But, merely inches away from his lanky form, it stops.  He hears it whinny, and its hooves scratch against the pavement; which is weird, because the last time he checked, there are only clouds, and clouds didn’t really make much sound.

Suddenly, he removes his hands from his face, looks down, and screams. _I’m standing on clouds!_ Reflexively, he jumps, arms quickly wrapping around any sort of anchorage—which happens to be the unicorn—that could save him from falling.  Naturally, the unicorn whinnies, but it’s not the type that earns him a kick afterwards.  The sound is closer to something like approval, as if the creature appreciated the odd embrace they are in.

Reluctantly, he looks up at the unicorn, face slightly twisted in a grimace as he pulls away.  He sees it smile at him, impossibly pink lips pulling up to reveal anthropomorphic pearly-whites.  That could’ve sent him fainting, but it’s its speaking that almost gives him cardiac arrest.

“ _Ride me_ ,” it says, tuft of unusual, chocolate brown hair flying in the wind.  His eyebrows subconsciously crease, and his hold on the creature slightly wavers.

All of a sudden, the unicorn begins to seem farther away, and he realizes that it’s begun galloping— _no_ , flying again.  His scrawny arms struggle to keep ahold of the unicorn’s muscular neck, legs helplessly scrambling beneath him.

“ _Ride me, daddy_.”

 

-

 

Zhang Yixing wakes up to the smell of strawberries.

A strangled sound builds up in his throat, interrupting the steady rhythm of snores erupting from his mouth and sailing through the cold morning air.  He snorts, body soon gaining mobility as he slowly becomes conscious.  Blinking away the last traces of sleep, his still-glassy eyes dazedly stare up at the ceiling—a wide expanse of white, textured permatex slightly chipping away to reveal ugly brown paint underneath; a faux crystal chandelier, one that looked a little too grimy to even be considered an effective artificial lighting, serves as its sole embellishment.  Yixing’s eyebrows furrow, and his eyes narrow.  He’s pretty sure he’s never had one installed.  He’s also sure he’ll never choose such a _tacky_ model, even if his life depended on it.

He means to sit up in order to make sense of his surroundings, but the bed barely creaks under him as he is practically pinned down, torso deemed immobile by a weight on his chest, which is apparently caused by a figure sleeping next to him.  His immediate response is a sharp intake of breath, and once more, the distinct smell of strawberries hits him, followed by something else, something far more _physical_ , hitting him on the head.

He groans, shifting uncomfortably. _Hangover_.

Memories of the night before begin to flash in Yixing’s mind, but they are all too quick and muddled to make sense to him; nothing but microsecond previews, meaningless imageries, bursts of color that dance in time with the merciless pounding in his head.

Ah, yes, dancing!

He remembers dancing!

He’s not exactly a genius, but it doesn’t take much for him to put two and two together: this stranger must be the beautiful girl he remembers dancing with last night.  A light flush comes across his cheeks when he considers the only possible reason why they’re sleeping on the same bed, then a smirk that’s bordering a little too close to perversion to be considered sane.  _Did King Zhang Yixing just get laid last night?_

He absentmindedly runs a hand through the girl’s chocolate brown hair, smirk reaching a point of permanence.  _Uhh, yeah.  He just did._

Minutes roll by with Yixing grinning at nothing, petting the girl’s hair with one veiny hand.  He only pauses when the first greeting of sunlight finally pours in through the windows, landing right on his dazed face and causing him to squint.  He doesn’t intend to stop with the caressing, but his ring gets caught in some of the brown strands, and as he attempts to tug it away, a guttural sound emits from the stranger.

Yixing’s eyes widen.  Is it just him, or did her voice sound a little too… _manly_?

The more groans escape, the more Yixing panics.  His ring doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, only gathering more strands with every attempt of pulling away.  He only now notices how the girl’s head of hair collectively move with every tug of his hand; it gives him goose bumps.  The stranger continues to stir, then freezes.  Yixing freezes.

French tips reluctantly dance across Yixing’s skinny, clothed torso, testing, searching.  He watches with careful eyes, goose bumps now popping everywhere the surprisingly warm hand travels.  Eventually, it reaches the low collar of Yixing’s tank top, fingertips ghosting over the man’s collarbones before reaching into the material.  Reflexively, Yixing reaches out to stop the hand, but since his own is still stuck in the stranger’s hair, instead of pulling away empty, he tugs the whole thing along.

_The whole thing_.

Both he and the stranger freezes.  The latter looks up at him with absolute terror.

Yixing screams, pushing back the cross-dressed man with one hand and attempting to shake off the chocolate brown wig with the other.  Unfortunately, he only makes matters worse, pulling the man along as they both discover the chain that linked them.  Silence takes over the room.  They stare at the handcuffs.  They make eye contact.

A battle cry pierces through the air, and the pair begins their tug of war.  Yixing looks determined, but it doesn’t even take a second for the man in the red dress to bring him down, twisting his arm in one quick maneuver and slamming the former down on the mattress.

Yixing groans.  He thinks he broke something.

 

-

 

Hopeless minutes are spent as far away from each other as possible.

The two men sit on opposite sides of the bed, eyes bid to never land anywhere near each other.  Yixing has been mumbling to himself that it’s all just a dream.  He’s just asleep.  Soon, he’ll wake up in his cozy bed, and all of this will be gone.  The man in the red dress, on the other hand, has been hacking hopelessly at the handcuffs with some wooden decoration he found on the bedside table.  He would’ve worried about paying for it if it breaks—as if it hasn’t already—but it’s the least of his concerns.  Right now, what he truly needs is to get away.

Yixing is the first to break their unspoken truce.  He gloomily looks over, eyes glazed with misery and hangover. “Listen,” he sighs, and immediately, the other stops hacking away at the chain, looking up at him with timid eyes. “I don’t remember anything about last night.  So please… _please_ help me on this.” He gestures towards their handcuffed hands. “Did you… do this?”

A clearing of the throat, then a sigh. “I-I don’t remember anything either.” He quickly adds, “b-but I didn’t–I didn’t do this!  I swear!”

Yixing chews on his lip, thinking. “What’s your name?”

“Junmyeon,” the man says with a bit of reluctance.

“Mhm,” Yixing nods, eyes directed towards the floor. “That your real name?”

“Uh, _yes_?”

“You sure?”

“Yes, _I’m sure_.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“ _Really really_.  What are you on about?”

“Just making sure you’re not a prostitute.”

“Hey!  I’m more honorable than that!”

Instead of a reply, Yixing lifts off the bed, tugging Junmyeon with him as he picks up something from the floor.  Pinched between his two fingers is a pair of lacy, black thongs.  He holds them up towards Junmyeon, nose crinkled teasingly. “You sure these don’t belong to you?”

An agonizingly long pause; Junmyeon only then realizes the odd coolness he’s been feeling between his legs.  He blushes. “G-give me that.” He reaches over to grab the thongs, but Yixing draws his hand back.

“Why lace?” He asks. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“It’s none of your busine— _ah_!”

Junmyeon reaches out to grab the thongs again, but Yixing only draws his hand back farther and farther, until he manages to knock them both down, the former pressed on top of him.  A breathless chuckle escapes Yixing, their sudden proximity showing his amusement towards Junmyeon’s tomato-red cheeks.  The latter successfully steals back the lacy underwear, pushing himself off Yixing, and hastily attempting to put it back on with one hand and without having to lift the hem of his dress.

Yixing’s quiet again, all that’s left a faraway look on his face.  Junmyeon rolls his eyes, meaning to hook the underwear over another leg, but the next thing he knows, he’s being dragged off the bed into an unknown direction. “Hey!” He calls out in surprise, attempting to grab the thongs pooling at his ankles.  His protests go unheard, Yixing dazedly leading him towards one corner of the trashy motel room until they reach a door that’s slightly ajar; the barely-enough-for-two space, the grimy walls, and the cracked tiles are enough to tell Junmyeon that it’s the motel’s excuse for a bathroom.

“Hey!  D-don’t tell me you’re—“ He’s cut off by the sound of piss sailing into the air, hitting the toilet’s surface with loud drips.  It reminds him of rain pitter-pattering against the roof, except the daydream quickly morphs into the drops turning yellow, and he has to scrunch his eyes closed before the image of dick-shaped clouds could even make an entrance.  It’s _not_ the best time to think about Yixing’s dick.

Said person seems to take centuries to relieve himself.  “Hey man,” Junmyeon tries, back turned as far away as possible in order to avoid further mental scarring.  It’s not like his right hand forced to press against Yixing’s jeans isn’t enough. “Can you um, _I don’t know_ , finish quicker?”

Yixing wordlessly complies, but pissing quicker meant pissing _louder_ , and Junmyeon’s not sure if he’d rather stand there for longer than hear for louder.  He tilts his head upwards, mumbling quiet wishes of euthanasia to anyone that could hear.

Junmyeon’s attention is caught by a piece of paper messily tucked in the corner of the mirror on the wall, and he walks towards it thoughtlessly.  Yixing yells something about almost slashing Yixing Jr. with his zipper, but his companion pays him no mind, snatching the paper with one manicured hand and waving it in the air in order to quickly let it unfold.  A small object tumbles out right next to Yixing’s feet.  He reaches down to pick it up while Junmyeon tries to examine every corner of the paper, coming up with nothing.

“You think there’s something we can play this?” Yixing inquires, waving the tape marked ‘X’ in front of Junmyeon’s face.

Junmyeon snaps his fingers together. “Yeah!  I think I remember a cassette player back in there.”

 

“ _The moon was dyed red,_

_And the sun and moon grew_

_Distant from each other._

_You and I were_

_No longer able_

_To be together. Until_

_The day we pass countless_

_Nights and stars, and are_

_Able to meet again._ ”

The tape ends with a sudden booming sound, something akin to something getting dropped or someone getting punched in the ear.  After that, nothing follows, just long lines of scratches and static.  Junmyeon and Yixing look up at the player, at each other, then the floor.  _What does any of that mean?_

“I got it,” Junmyeon says after a while. “I got it, I got it.  I think I got it.”

“What?” Yixing looks hopeful.

“You have a phone with you?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Um, no.  I haven’t seen it since I woke up.”

“Dang it,” Junmyeon hisses, looking around the mostly empty motel room.  He spots something on the bedside table, scrambles towards it—a certainly confused Yixing dragged behind—and goes back to their place at the foot of the bed.  He positions the pencil over the yellow paper, nodding at Yixing and at the cassette player. “Rewind it.”

All the while, Junmyeon is quiet, carefully listening to the cryptic poem, and making sure to write everything down.  Once more, the boom punctuates the message, not failing to make them jump the second time; again, nothing but static follows.  He looks at Yixing.

“See, I wrote the poem in English,” he explains, underlining certain parts of the poem.  He moves so that his side is pressed against Yixing’s, allowing him to see what he’s been working at. “You know how in the movies the message is always hidden at the beginning of every line of the poem?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _always_ —“

“—I underlined every letter at every beginning, so when we read it, it says…” Junmyeon quickly scribbles down the letters, reading them with an air of mystery. “ _TADYNTTNA_ …”

Yixing frowns. “That doesn’t―”

”―wait, no.  That can’t be right.”

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s it.”

“Wait, wait!  What about we use the words?  Maybe that could work!”

“Junmyeon, I don’t—“

“ _The and distant you no to the nights able…_ hmm, that’s not it.”

“Junmyeon.”

As Junmyeon continues to mumble nonsense and Yixing tries to reject his theories, they fail to hear movement, footsteps echoing in the recording.  They jump apart when a harsh “ _YOU FUCKING IDIOT_.” barks out from the cassette.

“What the…” Junmyeon clears his throat in attempt to cover up the certainly un-manly scream he emitted.  Yixing holds an index finger up towards him.

“ _You fucking idiot_ ,” the voice repeats, now sounding closer. “ _You could’ve broken it.  This was my grandma’s._ ”

“ _I could’ve, but it’s fine.  There’s no use crying about it_.”

There’s shuffling and more scratching, and another voice joins the first two. “ _You’re_ both _fucking idiots.  You ruined my poem_.  _Now I have to record it again_.”

“ _Your poem sucks,_ Jongdae _.  It doesn’t even make any sense._ ”

Junmyeon and Yixing share a look.

“ _It does!  You’re just jealous I came up with something so good!_ ”

“ _Tell me what it means, then._ ”

“…”

“ _See, see!  It doesn’t make any sense!  And you thought it was such a good idea to make it a clue._ ”

“ _Let me see you come up with something better._ ”

“A _t least I don’t pretend to be a poet_.”

“ _Hey, shush you two!  Someone’s coming!_ ”

The tape ends with a click.  After that, there’s only silence, and both need not speak to know that nothing else will follow.  Neither speaks for a long time, eyebrows furrowing and hearts beating in the quiet stillness of the morning.

“Who’s Jongdae?” They say at the same time, looking at each other.

They scratch their heads, gasp, and narrow their eyes at each other all at the same time.  Yixing tries to raise his right hand and begin some sort of choreography.  Oddly, Junmyeon does the same thing, only snapping out of it when he realizes how ridiculous he looks.

“Okay, okay.  This is weird.” Junmyeon closes his eyes, waving his hands about as if to clear away the awkwardness.  Yixing watches in fascination as his left arm wiggles along. “Who the hell is Jongdae?”

Yixing shrugs. “I might know a Jongdae.  But I’m not sure.”

Junmyeon’s face lights up. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Yixing nods, vision getting out of focus as he looks ahead.  He looks like a pensive lead character having a flashback.  “Could be a friend, could be someone I owe.  Could be anyone.”

Junmyeon hums, forehead creasing in thought.  He looks down at the ugly carpet, then up at Yixing—who is dazedly watching the cassette player lazily eject the tape―and then, slowly but suddenly, he gasps, holding a free hand up to his mouth.  His eyes run over Yixing’s worn-out wife beater, seemingly oversized jacket, baggy pants, and tattered sneakers.  It never occurred to him how it all seems to fit the man’s lanky frame so perfectly despite the outdated fashion sense, but now.  Now it all makes sense.

“ _Could be a friend…_ ”

Yixing leans forward to retrieve the tape.

“ _…could be someone I owe_.”

Junmyeon swallows.

“ _Could be anyone_.”

_He’s a gangster_.

Said man remains oblivious to Junmyeon’s train of thought, attention towards the voice tape.  While he turns it in his palms, Junmyeon’s face slowly contorts as if someone just called him ugly.  At the same time he decides to let out a slasher film scream, Yixing decides to ask what a B-side is.  The latter suddenly looks like he wants to actually chainsaw someone.

Yixing rubs his left ear. “…what the fuck, Junmyeon.”

“S-sorry, sorry.  What did you say?”

“I asked,” he grumbles, “if you know what a B-side is.  Because this thing says to ‘flip over to play B-side’.”

When he looks up upon examining the tape, Junmyeon’s leaned over him, curiosity seeming to make him forget the concept of personal space.  At this proximity, he could practically count the eyelashes currently fluttering up and down Yixing’s flawless face in a stare of intense judgment that could place sinners in eternal damnation.  Said person clears his throat sternly.  Junmyeon backs away with timid eyes, grimacing when the handcuffs tug painfully at their wrists.

“I–uh, I think we also have to play the other side,” Junmyeon answers carefully, senses now more vigilant.  “Th-the other side.  I-it’s called the B-side.  Th-there must be something else on it.”  He watches as Yixing looks at him weirdly, before shrugging, nodding and crawling over to the player.  With this newfound information, he ought to be smarter; if he wants to stay alive at the end of the day, he has to be cautious.  Yixing may be scrawny, but he’s strong.  He may seem constantly distracted, but he may be smarter than he lets on.  Junmyeon can never be too sure.  Gangsters can be tricky.

There’s about five seconds of static before a sharp exhale emits from the player.

“ _A’ight.  Listen, you two._ ”

Junmyeon turns to share a look with Yixing, but the latter’s staring at the player with intense concentration.  _No?  Just me? Okay._ He looks away embarrassedly.

“ _You’re probably confused as fuck right now because of Jongdae’s stupid poem.  I honestly can’t blame you, because even the greatest of intellectuals wouldn’t understand that alien garbage._ ”

“ _Hey!  What are you saying?  That poem was geni―_ ”

Cough. “ _Anyway, I suppose there’s no point going through the formalities because we’re running out of time, so blah-blah-blah, you can call me Mr. X, something about impending doom and meeting your end, yada-yada-yada, ask the receptionist for the next clue so you can remove the handcuffs, aaand that’s it.  Good luck._ ”

There’s another static silence, but the pair knew better than to turn it off.  They’re right.

_“See, idiots?  That’s how it’s done._ ”

“ _Wah, you’re good at this._ ”

“ _Obviously.  Better than that bullshit poem_.”

“ _Well, since you’re such a whiz, why don’t you tell me why you forgot to turn off the recorder?”_

“ _What do you… oh shit_.”

The player cuts off with a final click, and once more, Junmyeon and Yixing sit in silence.


	2. Never kiss on the first date.

**T** he receptionist is exactly where the pair find themselves five minutes later.

It isn’t far from their room, but it was a five-minute struggle before Yixing was able to successfully sling Junmyeon over his shoulder, and quickly jog to the more-or-less bewildered receptionist.  She was just about to leave the desk for lunch when the pair skids into the lobby, causing her to topple back into the booth in surprise.

“Mr. X… clue… impending doom,” Yixing explains in between breaths.  He notices the way the receptionist eyes the cross-dressed man slung over his shoulder (she might be checking out the brand of the lacy black thongs peeking under the hem of Junmyeon’s red dress—for the record, it’s a limited-edition Victoria’s Secret piece—but he can’t really tell), so he clears his throat and unceremoniously drops Junmyeon.  The latter quickly turns, pulls down his dress, and casts the middle-aged woman a million-won smile despite a disheveled wig and flustered cheeks.

Albeit reluctantly, the receptionist slides over two cell phones, a wallet, and a set of car keys.  Almost immediately, Junmyeon reaches out to the last of four objects, only to cry out in frustration when it wouldn’t even fit in the handcuffs’ keyhole.  Yixing gives him a look: _the fuck, bro_.

They turn to thank the receptionist, but it seems the old woman has already run off to some unknown direction, screaming for salvation and flailing comically like some permanently traumatized chicken.  They gape after her, confused stares following until there’s nothing left but cartoon dust motes floating in the mostly empty, dilapidated lobby.  They grab their respective phones, each welcomed with different sights: Junmyeon’s lock screen is set to a Notepad screenshot, while Yixing’s is to a Google Maps one.  They look over at each other’s phones, then up at each other.

“Looks like a map to this café nearby.” Yixing nods over. “What does _yours_ say?”

“Um,” Junmyeon tilts his head as if to read better, but truly, he’s just stalling.  Sure, he wants freedom, but can it be really found on the other end of these set of clues?  If so, is the risk worth it?  “There’s uh…”

“There’s…?”

He holds the cell phone down to his thigh.  (Yes, Kim Junmyeon, he totally wouldn’t suspect anything.  _Very_ inconspicuous.)  _Take the third car to the left (a silver KIA, KML-1485).  Destination: see Yixing’s map._   “Something.”

Yixing’s eye twitches. “…‘something’?”

“Yeah, _something_.”

“Junmyeon…”

Said man pretends to drop the car keys, making a big show out of picking it up and fumbling with it.  He ‘accidentally’ clicks unlock, and sure enough, a silver KIA a few meters away beeps in response.  His face is immediately painted with what has got to be the fakest attempt at looking surprised, all complete with an agape mouth and French-tipped hands clutched dramatically to his chest.  Somewhere, a Hallyu talent scout gets a heart attack from having their dreams of recruiting him crushed. “Wah, how convenient!  Luck must be on our side today.” (Not.)

Yixing looks at him weirdly, but wordlessly follows after him anyway. Another five-minute struggle ensues as an insistent Junmyeon demands he drives, and a groggy Yixing grumbles under his breath and tries to climb over the middle compartment.  Said attempt fails before it even started: Yixing falls on his face on the passenger seat when the chain on his jeans gets caught in the hand brake, dragging Junmyeon along.  The chain pulls the hand brake and therefore the car forward, knocking Junmyeon out of balance and causing his stomach to land smack right onto the hand brake.

_Finish him._

He doubles over, and as if the searing pain in his gut isn’t enough, inertia propels his head forward, smashing his heavily made-up face right onto Yixing’s raised ass.

_FATALITY._

 

-

 

Junmyeon can feel Yixing’s eyes burning holes into his skull.

“You…”Yixing begins, composure maintained despite vexation seeping through his voice. “...just missed the exit.  Again.”

For what feels like the past fifteen minutes (probably more), Junmyeon has been purposely ignoring Yixing’s instructions.  He just keeps his stare straight ahead, foot heavy on the accelerator, and hands tight on the steering wheel, letting the KIA push forward like some aimless, non-Christmas version of the Polar Express.  For what feels like the past fifteen minutes or more, Junmyeon seems to be, so far, safe from Yixing’s wrath.  If he’s lucky, perhaps he can push the teasing further, just enough that the other will give up this Amazing Race fantasy, and let him take the lead.

But he feels a light but firm hold on his clothed bicep, and he jumps in his seat, almost steering the car into a road barrier.  The car behind them honks loudly as it swerves past them, only speeding past after flipping them the bird.  Junmyeon apologizes and grins sheepishly, albeit minutes too late and volumes too quiet.

“W-what is it?” Junmyeon inquires.

“You—” Yixing manages after un-latching from the car’s interior, having previously looked like some petrified gecko holding onto the door for dear life. “—don’t–don’t take this personally, but do you _actually_ know road signs?”

_Yes, we learned them in like, fourth grade._

“Or how to drive?”

_Sure, aced my test the first time. It’s not a big deal or anything._

“Or _at least_ how to follow instructions?  Because I’ve been telling you to turn left for the past half-hour and—“

_Wow, has it really been that long?_

“—you just keep going forward.  Is anything the matter?  Because if you’re not feeling well, I can _totally_ take the wheel.  I mean, I have the worst hangover in history, but I can drive for a bit, it’s fine—“

 _It seems things aren’t going as planned.  I need to think of another way I can get out of_ —

“—Junmyeon, are you okay?”

Yixing grips Junmyeon’s arm again, and the KIA finally screeches to a halt.  Junmyeon looks like he’s just seen his life flash before his eyes.  Another vehicle honks loudly before speeding past, tossing them an invisible goodie bag filled with middle fingers and profanities.  Junmyeon eerily turns his head, eyes widened and nostrils flared. “Don’t—do— _that_.” He scolds in between incessant slaps at Yixing’s hand.

“ _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_!” The latter yelps, attempting to shield himself.

“We could’ve died!” Junmyeon reprimands.

“Hey, _you’re_ the one who didn’t know how to drive!” Yixing defends. “I was just offering to take your place, and then you zone out and now you freak out!”

“ _You’re_ freaking _me_ out!”

“What?  _Me_?  What did I do?”

Junmyeon opens his mouth to say something, but closes it and wordlessly turns back towards the road.  _Now, now, Kim Junmyeon_ , he thinks, _you can’t lose your composure now. He’s just trying to get to your head.  Remember, he’s a gangster.  One mistake and you’ll end up in a ditch._

Again, that million-won smile.  “Ugh, _fine_.  We’ll go to that damned café.”

He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life.  In one swift motion of the steering wheel, he skillfully turns the KIA in a perfect 180⁰, the vehicle defying all rules of physics and smoothly sailing through the conveniently-placed U-turn.  Without even having to be told where to go, Junmyeon does all the right turns, and before they know it, they’re pulling up in front of a sizeable outdoor mall.  Yixing gapes at Junmyeon.  He wonders what he ever did to deserve such torture.

 

Much to Junmyeon’s dismay (and relief), the café in Yixing’s map turns out to be an actual café and not some dingy gangster hideout.  Nevertheless, he still has his guard up, narrowed eyes and hunched figure deeming him a pale-skinned Grinch.  Hell-bent on keeping an eye out for Mr. X, everyone becomes his suspect—he mouths death threats at an old man (who chokes on his coffee), hisses at a toddler (who blows defiant raspberries his way), and even aims a punch at a potted plant (which merely flaps in response).

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yixing groans for what seems to be the billionth time that day.

Junmyeon immediately stills, bringing down his fists from in front of his chest. “Nothing!  C-come on, l-let’s uh, let’s sit.”

They find a table by the huge glass windows, and for the first time since being chained together, they figure out how to get settled without having to drag the other in the strangest predicament.  But before their butts even touch the cushions, an overly-enthusiastic voice pipes up from behind them, making Junmyeon almost kiss the small plant on their table.

“Welcome to EXO Café!  How may I help you?”

Junmyeon grits his teeth, meaning to lash out, but his plans of on-the-spot murder gets cancelled when he turns and sees bright, way-too-perfect pearly whites glaring down on him as if the relentless sun in the Sahara Desert.  He slowly backs away, shaking his head, afraid that if he speaks, Mr. Pedo Smile will jump him and open his guts.

“Um,” Yixing clears his throat. “Yeah, hi.  I’m Yixing and he’s Junmyeon, and this may sound a bit weird, but we’re here for our next clue…?”

If it was even possible, the waiter looks more excited and enthusiastic than he was before, even bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet like a rocking chair on steroids.  “Ah, yes, of course, of course! I’m Chanyeol, and no, that’s not weird at all!  I’ve been waiting for you, actually.”

Junmyeon and Yixing share a look.  Chanyeol continues, handing them menus. “Y’all have to order first.  Your clue will take a while to get.” He holds out gigantic palms, “café stubs…?”

“Oh, yeah.” Yixing lifts his hips to reach for the brown wallet with his handcuffed hand.  The chain clinks, and Chanyeol casts it a gaze so intense it could land him a Vogue photo shoot, but his stare doesn’t last for another second before he’s back to his bright self again.  Yixing hands him the two stubs with a small but dimpled smile.

“Great!” Chanyeol claps. “Well, what will you two be getting?”

“Let me see…”

Meanwhile, Junmyeon’s busy playing Tap Tap with his home button, eyebrows scrunched in concentration at trying to figure out what the instruction “ _Order an Americano and Red Velvet cupcakes. Yixing likes those stuff, and likes it even more if people know what he likes._ ” even means.  So far, this instruction has got to be the most cryptic yet, and he’s not going to lie: even the intellectual that he is cannot figure this one out.

Unbeknownst to him, Chanyeol has been peeking at his phone, and has been, in his mind, cheering for him to read it out.  But even a minute is too long for him, so he clears his throat and decides to help out the cross-dressed man. “Oh, _did you say_ an Americano and Red Velvet cupcakes for both?  Excellent choice!” He grins, pointing between them. Yixing confusedly looks up from his menu. “Do you usually do this?  Y’know, order for each other?  That’s so sweet!”

Junmyeon looks like the waiter just poured cold water all over him. “We’re… not dating.”

“Oh, yeah, _ha-ha. Riiight_. Totally not in love.”

Chanyeol shoots finger guns at Junmyeon, winking at least ten times before disappearing into a door marked ‘Staff only’.  Yixing raises his eyebrows questioningly.  Junmyeon only shrugs.

 

-

 

“Yeah, no, listen.  It’s either your right hand or nothing.”

“Your weekends sound miserable.”

It must be fate, or it must be something in the Red Velvet, but _who are we kidding_ , neither of them believe in fate.  While Yixing’s life has been founded on preoccupied and haphazard decisions, Junmyeon’s has been created through deliberate and calculated ones; both are different enough to ensure their lives diverging paths.  No one in their right mind could’ve predicted their meeting.  Or at least their getting along.

It must be fate, or it must be something in the Red Velvet, but somehow, the pair find themselves slowly easing into each other’s company.  Somewhere along conversations of sappy ideal dates and shitty lonely weekends, Yixing unknowingly convinces Junmyeon that he’s just a normal guy living a normal life, not some notorious gangster hiding out in dodgy alleys and constantly getting into fights.

Yixing forks what’s left of his Red Velvet, offering it up to Junmyeon’s mouth.  The latter absentmindedly parts his lips to oblige, but a fangirl squeal interrupts them.  Yixing nearly stabs Junmyeon’s lips.  Junmyeon chokes on the cake.  Yixing repeatedly apologizes, looking completely torn between touching the other’s lips and offering him some water.  Junmyeon shakes his head, insisting he’s just fine, but keeps coughing like he’s dying anyway.

Almost immediately, Chanyeol gravitates toward their table, looking like he just won the Pyeongchang Olympics.  He creepily grins at the two, inserting a neatly-folded piece of paper under their nearly-touching handcuffed hands.  His eyes look like they’re about to spill out of their sockets if the clue is not quickly opened.

Junmyeon shares a look with Yixing, picking up the yellow paper and reading:

“ _Incheon Port. Five-thirty PM. Don’t be late_.”

 

-

 

“So do we–uh, just wait here, or…?”

“I think so.”

The pair quietly trudge down the walkway.  Yixing hums to himself, doing impromptu leaps and gyrations on the wooden foundation.  Junmyeon watches in amusement.  Soon, they make it to the edge, swinging their legs over the planks and taking a seat.  It’s just the right amount of cold tonight, just enough so that their arms touch while they sit close to each other.

While Yixing peers at the clear water below, fascinatedly watching his distorted reflection and quietly chuckling to himself, Junmyeon fancies himself with the breath-taking view of the sun slowly touching the water in the horizon.  As it starts sinking, fragments of yellows, oranges and reds reflect on the deep blue, the intertwining of hues deemed a sacred union between the sun and the earth.

“Beautiful,” Junmyeon comments.

Yixing looks up, and he too, gets entranced by the phenomena.  But then he looks to his left, and he’s not sure if anything’s more beautiful than how ethereal Junmyeon looked, what with the sun’s farewell rays kissing his smooth, pale skin.  Yixing’s breathing hitches, completely awestruck by a view he’d never thought he’d be damned to witness.

“Yeah,” he whispers, nearly choking on his spit.

Junmyeon must’ve sensed the odd sentimentality in his companion’s voice, because without considering their proximity, he so abruptly turns to his right.  Yixing’s so close to him, he can practically count the number of eyelashes fluttering shyly as dark, brown irises look into his own.  His gulp seems a thousand times more audible in the suddenly-too-quiet port.  The sun’s almost disappeared now, the heat spreading through clammy skin and fire igniting in solemn eyes their only source of figurative light. They say nothing for a while, allowing their bodies to speak for them as they slowly lean into each other.

But by the time the sun has finished its descent and their lips have almost touched, a blood-curdling scream pierces through the air and scares the living daylights out of Junmyeon.  Seemingly having forgotten about the whole handcuffs situation, said man instinctively leaps forward and into the water.  Yixing yelps before following suit.

Behind them, four figures emerge from overgrown brush.  The tallest one looks like he wants to strangle the shortest.

“ _YOU FUCKING IDIOT_.”


	3. Walk the hallway like it's the runway, not like it's a walk of shame.

**I** t was the night of the seventh of October 2012, and The Zealot stood tall in all its glamor and grit.

The inappropriately-named club is stationed at this old, sketchy apartment building in downtown Incheon, bright, different-colored lights and muffled music making up for its ugly exterior.  Patrons, both young and old, gravitated towards it like moths drawn to a flame, filling the cold night with the dull buzz of senseless chatter.

It was the night of the seventh of October 2012, and it was Zhang Yixing’s birthday.

He previously had different plans—perhaps one that has something to do with the whipped cream and X-Rated CDs stashed away behind his couch—but Wu Yifan had insisted he went out, for once.  It’ll be fun, he said.  Be there or be square, he said.

“Zitao will be there,” Yifan had bribed, looking like his offer was something Yixing can never refuse.  Yixing had scoffed at him; everyone knew that if _anyone_ will have the most fun with the boy around, it would be Emperor Wu Yifan himself.  But with a resigned huff and an exasperated roll of the eyes, Yixing had mumbled a barely audible “whatever”, earning a bear hug and a certainly un-manly squeal from his best friend.

And so, despite all the stench and sweat and sex hanging low in the air like some out-of-place birthday party banner, The Zealot was exactly where Zhang Yixing found himself thirty minutes later than their agreed time.  He squeezed through the tightly-packed throng of drunkenly gyrating bodies, earning a grope and a smooch or two from giddy strangers, and so by the time he’d stumbled his way to his peers, he was practically a crane who’d survived a thunderstorm.

At the same time he’d managed his escape, two other people stepped out from the alcohol-zombie horde, smirking at him like they owned the place.

“Oh, hey!  Happy birthday!”

 

-

 

“Can you imagine?  I’ve caught top-honor student Doh Kyungsoo sharing test answers with that Kim Jongin again.  The third time this week!  Unbelievable!”

“ _Ugh_ , tell me about it.  There’s definitely something going on with those two.  Still, better than reading those notes Mr. Byun passes in class.  I was better off not having a detailed description of how he apparently ‘plays’ a lot with Mr. Oh.”

“ _Yeesh_.  No one can top that.”

“Right.”

“…”

“Is that… supposed to be an innuendo?”

Kim Minseok stifled a giggle, successfully shielding his arm when Kim Junmyeon aimed a stern slap his way.  The latter laughed along with him anyway, shaking his head as he cleared away the contents of his desk.  The rest of the department had gone home earlier, and so the two were left to close up the faculty room for the day.

Junmyeon sighed, plopping down on his office chair, and slumping his handsome face against the cool glass surface of his now emptied desk.  From this position, the daunting pile of test papers and textbooks blocked his view of Minseok, who then cartoonishly swung sideways so he could cast a worried glance at his best friend.

“Hey,” he began, peering behind the Great Wall of Paperwork. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Junmyeon hummed in response, momentarily closing his eyes. “Just tired, is all.”

“You sure?  You look like you need a break.”

At that, the man’s eyes opened, and his torso shot up as if suddenly electrocuted.  He grabbed the other’s shoulders in one quick motion, earning a yelp from the startled baozi.

“Minseok,” he said carefully. “I’ve thought about it.  The thing.”

“The… ‘thing’?” Minseok stuttered, staring wide-eyed between the suddenly excited man and the vice-like grip on his small arms. “What’s–what’s ‘the thing’?”

“You know. _The thing_.” Junmyeon hinted. “I want to… I want to do it tonight.”

To supplement his words, Junmyeon let go of Minseok, who watched in utter confusion as his best friend slowly and sensually brushed a hand through his gelled hair, and ran a delicate finger around his pink lips.  He then proceeded to caress his hand down his chest, smoothing it all the way down his thighs, punctuating the small performance with a sultry wink.  Minseok would’ve suffered a nosebleed anime-style, but the other impatiently stomped his feet and added an aegyo flying kiss, and the whole sexual charades suddenly made sense.

“ _Ohhh_.  The—“ Minseok quickly imitated Junmyeon’s previous actions, somehow managing to make it look cuter and sexier.  “—thing.”

The latter looked both impressed and terrified. “Uh… yeah.”

“Cool!  See you at The Zealot!”

 

-

 

“ _Minseok_?  What are you doing here?”

Said man stepped out from the alcohol-zombie horde, smirking at him like he owned the place, a boy  with handsome features trailing after him. “Because it’s your birthday, dummy.  Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Yixing laughed joyously, pulling him in for a bear hug. “Thanks man. I’ve missed you!”

“You ding-dong.  We see each other every day at work.”

“Doesn’t matter.  I always miss seeing your cute face.” Yixing squished his friend’s face with both hands, eyebrows furrowing and eyes narrowing when he gets a closer look at his current subject of fascination.  _Is he wearing… makeup?_

A cough rang through the loud music, and the embracing pair look up to see the boy Minseok came with tapping his foot impatiently.  Minseok walked over, putting an arm around—no, draping himself all over—his companion.  He patted the boy’s chest, “this is my _wife_ , Kim Jongdae.”

Jongdae rolled his eyes and pushed Minseok’s hand off, but secretly blushed under the brightly-colored lights.  He marched towards the birthday boy, holding out a hand.  “Happy birthday, Yixing,” he greeted, a little too stiffly. “Pleased to meet you.”

Instead of meeting the hand with a formal handshake, Yixing just laughed and gave him a high-five.

 

“Happy birthday, happy birthdaaay, happy birthday to you!”

Yixing tried to blow out the sparklers taped to the cocktail cake, but despite the many attempts and spittle, it still wouldn’t go out.  So, worried about the germs contaminating their shared drinks, his friends pulled him back and covered his mouth.  They each grabbed a glass from the pile, raising it in the air.

“To your twenty-first year,” Minseok announced. “May you live for longer.”

“Yeah!” His friends shouted.

“And may you finally get laid.”

His friends shouted louder, cheering and clinking their glasses with Yixing’s and Minseok’s.  The latter chuckled.  Yixing rolled his eyes, barely catching the cheeky wink his friend gave him.

 

-

 

Under the bright lights and pounding music, Kim Junmyeon was long gone.

In his place, wearing a tight-fitting red dress, a chocolate-brown wig, strappy heels, and nail polish, is Kim Junhee—a woman of exquisite beauty, oozing confidence, and one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine party points.  She barely batted an eye at the drunken peasants crowding in awe at her feet; just one wave of her hand and they go falling like flies around her.

But with the effects of alcohol just starting to kick in, and nerves nagging him like an agitated mother, it was Junmyeon who sat alone at the bar, eyes squinting at the annoying mixture of blinding color and deafening noise.  Hand gripping his glass of bourbon and coke like his life depended on it, he craned his neck as high as he could, eyes looking out for where his best friend could have gone.

After what felt like centuries, said man finally reappeared, pushing through the crowd with a dazed-looking Jongdae in tow.  Junmyeon’s eyebrows furrowed at the latter’s dishevelled state.

“What’s wrong with him?” He voiced out, “And what happened to your dress?”

“Oh, him?  He’s just having fun,” Minseok chuckled, waving one hand dismissively and making sure to hold tight onto Jongdae with the other. “I had to take it off; the material was chafing my skin.”

“Ah,” Junmyeon said, unconvinced.

“That’s ooone preeeeeeeetty lady,” Jongdae interrupted, pulling his hand away from Minseok’s until he’s let go of, and stumbling towards Junmyeon, “hellooooooo pretty lady.”

“Oh, um, h-hel—“

“—but you know what??“ He slurred, booping the cross-dressed man’s nose with an air of accusation. “ _Fu_ _-uck you_.  My Minseokie’s preeettier.”

“ _Okay_ …” Junmyeon wasn’t sure if he should be offended.  Minseok, on the other hand, looked nothing less than amused.

“God, I _love_ this man,” he chuckled, patting Jongdae’s chest. “Say, Junhee?”

Junmyeon blushed, timidly looking up from the drink he’d been idly sloshing around. “Yeah?”

“Wanna dance?”

 

-

 

Unfortunately for Zhang Yixing, it seemed like his and his friends’ mutual birthday wishes for his long-awaited devirginization wouldn’t be possible that evening.

For the third—or was it the fifth?  The bartender insisted he’s already on his twentieth, but he’s _pretty sure_ a different number followed three—time since his friends had decided to leave him all lonely and miserable at the bar, and had waltzed drunkenly towards the dance floor, he raised his drink in the air as if in a toast.  This time, he said, “to the forever alone me.” before tipping his head back and allowing the sting of the alcohol to flow down his throat.  Slosh, slosh, slosh.  Wheeeee.

He should go home, he thought.  And so, shakily pulling himself off the barstool, he whipped around to give the bartender a salute and a tipsy grin, then began his trip towards the exit.  But, despite repeatedly telling himself that he just wanted to go home and crash for the night, his limbs brought him elsewhere, and the next thing he knew, he’s standing all crooked and awkward in the middle of the dimly-lit dance floor.

But he wasn’t the only one.

 

Junmyeon wasn’t usually so crooked and awkward when standing in the middle of the dance floor, especially when he’s dressed up as Junhee.

Still, slouched and unconfident as he seemed at the moment, no one dared to lay a finger on him, The Zealot’s patrons, both old and new, keeping at least a good five-meter distance from him.  He had his stars to thank for that, his whole image as a veteran partygoer and bona fide black-belter enough to ward off creeps and perverts.

So confident he’d be left alone and safe, he let out a startled scream when someone unceremoniously bumped into him.  His eyes were immediately ablaze, eyebrows furrowed into undefined rage oblivion.  He spun around to fury swipe Pokémon-style at his offender, but his expression quickly softened when his eyes landed on a lanky boy with blonde-dyed hair.

To Junmyeon, he looked more lost than drunk, even when he said, “what’s an _old lady_ like you doing here?”

If it was Minseok's boyfriend who said that, he wouldn’t think twice about slapping him across the face.  But that time, Junmyeon simply giggled, demurely batting his eyelashes and covering his mouth with one manicured hand.  “I’m not an old lady.”

“Then why do you look like you need help crossing the road?”

_Huh?_

“Y’know.  ‘Cause you’re just standing there and not dancing.”

Again, a giggle. “Well, come on then, _hot-shot_.  Help grandma cross the road.”

The boy laughed confusedly, but began to quickly stretch out his limbs, and then, just as a song called “Playboy”—it’s by some popular boy group or something; Junmyeon didn’t really care at the moment—started playing, with a slightly open mouth and a cocky glint in his eyes, he started to slowly sway his hips, each movement perfectly timed to the beat.  Junmyeon slowly walked backwards to give him space for his performance, but with every step, the boy slowly advanced towards him with impromptu steps and gyrations; he swayed his shoulder to the right, to the left, then to the front, the movement continued suavely with a smooth body roll.  It was only when they’re close enough that Junmyeon began to realize how he’d subconsciously started following the boy’s amazing choreography.

Impressed, he leaned in towards the stranger’s ear so he could hear him better. “What’s your name?”

The boy involuntarily shivered, unused to anyone being so close to his neck. “Y-Yixing.”

“Well then, _Yixing_ ,” Junmyeon beamed, “you’re a great dancer.  I’m Junhee.”

“That your real name?”

“Does it matter?” Junmyeon began laughing breathlessly.

“If… if it doesn’t matter, then…” Yixing suddenly felt confident, lips forming into a sly smirk.  Junmyeon suddenly felt nervous.

“…you can call me _Daddy_.”

 

-

 

It took more than a few tries, but finally, the door swung open, and Yixing was able to push Junhee inside.

He held onto her surprisingly strong shoulders, pushing her until her back hit a wall, and their lips momentarily disconnect as she emitted a low grunt.  Yixing hungrily kissed down her neck, his mind too hazed with alcohol to even acknowledge the Adam’s Apple standing out like a sore thumb through the milky skin.  Equally as drunk, Junhee merely moaned and tugged at his hair in response.

She pulled his head back up, reconnecting their lips as if she missed him greatly in the short moment they were separated.  They were dancing again, stumbling and clashing blindly through the trashy motel room, all lips and teeth and legs, in a messy but beautiful sort of choreography.

Somehow, Yixing ended up a panting mess on top of Junhee, the latter’s lacy black underwear long gone and forgotten.  He’d been sitting mostly still, eyes greedily raking her lithe form.  He eased backwards, surprised to feel a lump behind his ass, but oddly, he felt more turned on than off by the unexplained lady boner.

Pulling him down by the low collar of his wife beater, Junhee slightly craned her neck upwards, lips ghosting over the reddening shell of Yixing’s ear.  With his heart beating loudly in his chest and blood rushing quickly to his nether regions, Yixing barely caught her next words.

“ _Ride me, daddy_.”

 

-

 

It was unnecessary, but the door was kicked open, and the first to step through was Huang Zitao, fists balled against his waist and head held high as if a protagonist from some campy superhero movie.

The pride that welled up in his chest was enough, but Yifan gladly rewarded him with a pat on the head and a sloppy kiss on the cheek, the last of which he hastily wiped away in disgust.  He cockily leaned against the doorframe, giving just enough space for the remaining members of their ragtag group to pad into the room.

Their self-proclaimed leader, Minseok—it was supposed to be Yifan, but it was Minseok who thought of the plan, and besides, who can say no to that face?—looked like he’d won a billion won, completely amazed that they’d managed to infiltrate the motel room without breaking sweat.  He held up a pair of handcuffs, jiggling it excitedly.  He lifted a finger up to his lips in the universal _shush_ ing gesture, tiptoeing towards the bed.  Jongdae couldn’t stop giggling behind his hand.  Zitao only watched with his arms folded over his chest, hiding his amusement behind a smirk.  Yifan had already fallen asleep in some corner.

After securing the handcuffs around the passed out couple’s wrists, the group managed to leave their clues in all the right places; Yifan kept on wanting to make out with the bathroom mirror because he said “The World’s Most Handsome Man” lived there, and Jongdae tainted most of the lobby plants with his vomit, but that was it.

The silver KIA’s already prepared.  Chanyeol’s already informed.

Now, they only need to wait.

 

-

 

The first thing Yixing sees when he opens his eyes again is darkness.

It takes him a moment to realize the simultaneous pressure on his lips, but when he does, he brings up both fists to pound at the chest hovering a few inches from his.  Sure enough, Wu Yifan pulls away, wiping his mouth with a crazed grin.

“What… _the fuck_.” are the first words out of Yixing’s mouth once he’s sputtered out water from his lungs.

“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!” Yifan defends.

“He doesn’t actually know CPR,” Zitao puts a hand on the former’s shoulder, giving him a disapproving look.  He kneels beside Yixing, producing a set of keys out of thin air.  Yixing gapes at him as he frees his wrist from the handcuffs. “He just wants an excuse to make out with someone.”

“Hey, that’s not true!”

“Uhuh.  That’s the same thing you said when you told me you were gonna make me c—“

Yixing tunes out the bickering couple, absentmindedly rubbing his wrist and looking around.  _Where the fuck am I?_

 

-

 

The first thing Junmyeon sees when he opens his eyes again is the magnified nostrils of one Kim Minseok.

Both in surprise and reflex, he coughs out water right onto the elder’s face, who screeches in response, completely mortified as he leaps into the arms of a boy whom Junmyeon now remembers as Jongdae.  The latter only screams along, more due to disgust than concern, voice towering over Minseok’s desperate pleads to get the “Junmyeon Germs” off of him.

Junmyeon backs away, protectively clutching his right arm to his chest, more or less surprised that nothing else gets dragged along.  He blinks, regarding with furrowed brows the concentric bruises forming around his wrist.

From more than a mile away, he can still see the deep blue water, and eyes that stared even deeper into his soul.

 

-

 

It’s when tomorrow comes that Zhang Yixing finally figures out where he is.

He’s in his cozy bed, all traces of yesterday’s hangover gone.  He drags himself out of bed, padding through the mostly empty apartment room, pace languid as if he has all the time in the world, pointedly ignoring the bright red _8:00 AM_ glaring at him from his bedside table.

He doesn’t bother to iron his dress shirt and black pants, only hastily putting them on and therefore managing to wrinkle them further as his tardiness only then dawns upon him.  He fails at least three times at properly putting on his necktie.  He nearly misses the bus when he trips over his untied shoelaces.

Nevertheless, hair dishevelled and breathing labored, he doesn’t fail to sheepishly smile at the old lady who usually sits by the aisle.  He gets off at SM High School, tripping on his untied shoelaces again on his way out.

It’s all in a day’s work, but today, something feels wrong.

Something’s missing.

 

-

 

It’s when tomorrow comes that Kim Junmyeon finally realizes that the show must go on.

All traces of yesterday’s makeup gone, he promptly gets out of bed, fluffing his pillow and smoothing down his comforter.  Since he has more than enough time, he cooks himself breakfast, humming to himself an unfamiliar tune as the eggs and bacon sizzle away in the pan.  He pauses mid-tune, flashes of the previous night momentarily haunting him before he’s shaking his head.  He has to move on.

He puts on his neatly-ironed dress shirt and black pants, expertly puts on his necktie, and ties his shoelaces.  He gets on the bus, makes his way to the nearest empty seat, checks his watch—it’s _7:35_ ; _tsk,_ he’s five minutes late.  He probably took too long in the shower, distracted by thoughts about a certain lanky, blonde-haired boy—and stoically looks ahead.

He presses the button just as the bus turns the corner of SM High School, barely giving the conductor a curt nod before getting off.

It’s all in a day’s work, but every day, something feels wrong.

Something’s missing.

 

-

 

The first thing Yixing gets in the morning is a good scolding.

Missing class cards this, unfiled grades that.  Unprepared lesson plans blah, unchecked exams yada.  He’s gotten so used to it all that he barely bats an eyelash when he’s told to get down to the conference room for his punishment.  Something about becoming a Slave for a Day to another faculty head.

Something.  He wasn’t really paying attention.  He just wants to go home and sleep off the misery.

With a resigned huff, he wills himself to unlatch from his messy excuse for a desk, taking his time in exiting the Life Science faculty room.  He drags himself through the tiled floor as if every step weighed a thousand tons, groaning and cursing under his breath.

“Mr. Zhang!” His superior suddenly bellows, giving at least half of the department a heart attack.

Yixing immediately uprights, “y-yes, sunbae-nim!”

“If you don’t get there in two minutes,” his superior taunts. “You’ll get _all_ the paperwork for the semestral break.“

_It’s fine, I deserve it.  It’s the least I can get._

“And at least half of your pay check—”

Yixing doesn’t even need to hear the rest of the sermon, because in less than a second, he’s sprinting out the door and down the nearest flight of stairs.  His sunbae-nim knows just how sensitive he can be, especially when it comes to his hard-earned money.  He may seem like a slacker with that constant, faraway look on his face, but the world knows he works his ass off.  All day, er’day.

But by the time he reaches the conference room, having been given ample time to reflect on his current life status, his gloomy atmosphere is back on display.  He’s twenty-one and a virgin, he realizes.

He’ll die alone, he somehow convinces himself.

All misery and lank and wrinkled shirts, Yixing zombie-walks into the conference room.  His body remains slumped, not even bothering to look up when the Language and Literature department head calls out a, “you’re late.” from the other side of the room.

All courtesy and crisp and perfectly-gelled hair, Junmyeon impatiently taps his pen against a neatly-organized clipboard, trimmed nails and soft fingers carefully flipping through forms and class cards.  Upon the Biology teacher-assistant’s entrance, he quietly tuts from the other end of the long table.

Yixing groans.  Junmyeon sighs.

At the same time, both men look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH thanks to all the readers who dropped by !! Thank you for leaving comments and kudos, you have no idea how much it means to me, given that this is my first time joining a fic fest, and my first time writing again after nearly three years.  
> And to my dear prompter, thank you so much for leaving all those lovely comments ! You're so supportive even though I know I didn't give your prompt much justice. Really, it makes me tear up how nice you are to me ; - ; I will make it up to you next time somehow, I promise !
> 
> If you have questions, requests, or just want to say hi, my social media accounts can be found in my profile :>
> 
> I hope you are all having a great day (ﾉ♡‘ヮ’♡)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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